Open Doors
by Genius-626
Summary: John and Sherlock narrate their thoughts. John is trying to decide if Sherlock's dead or not, and Sherlock is trying to decide how to tell John he's not. They are both haunted by what they think is Moriarty's ghost, whispering sinister thoughts into their minds. If they are ever going to get back to each other, though, Sherlock and John have to overcome their demon. By Amelia Z.


Open Doors

My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.

Or at least he's made it seem as though he died. I know deep down he isn't. That git. Why'd he do it? Or rather, why hasn't he told me why yet?

It's been two weeks already, and nothing.

_He's dead._

That can't be.

_He really is dead._

Would you shut up?

Moriarty just keeps looking at me in the dark. I feel his stare burning into the back of my head. I turn around to see his twisted smile. It makes my stomach churn and I'm shaking all of the sudden. But I can't get away from him.

_He died because of you, John. He couldn't bare to have his little pet put to sleep. It's all your fault he's dead._

"He's not dead though. And you're not real."

_Oh, don't be so sure. Wake up, already! _

And so I did. With a violent jolt, I awoke to find myself alone. But I did not feel alone. Never in 221B did I feel like Sherlock had left. Mrs. Hudson will probably never get to fixing the bullet holes from the study wall. I will never truly get that awful deceased human stench out from the fridge. I've left everything a mess, haven't tried tidying up one bit.

There's a difference from leaving me behind and leaving me alone. I know I've only been left alone. Just for a little while.

_You're so faithful, aren't you? You can't bare to think that the most important person in your life will never return, not even for you. _

_…_

I, Sherlock Holmes, am supposed to be dead. But I am not.

John can't know. Not right now. But he should know. He deserves to know. But how would I even go about telling him?

There are too many other things I should be thinking about, too many important things. I should be thinking about how I'm going to live for the next few months, who I'll contact to get answers. Where I will find Moriarty this time. How I'll kill him before he ever tries to kill John again. But I can't carry on with any of them. Not until I figure out how to tell John I'm alive without ruining everything. It's infuriating.

I want to see him. I want to look at him and for him to look at me and at least know things have a chance of going back to the way things were, but that's too dangerous. There are things to be done and if I got too close to him I'd only want to stay.

_Fuck him. He knows you're alright anyway. _

He doesn't. He may think I'm alright, but he will never know for sure, and that will eat at him until he's nothing.

_He's already nothing. He's ordinary. He's plain. He's a dog that will die without his master and he's not the type of dog worth saving. He's a mutt. Replaceable. _

You know nothing about that man! There is nothing replaceable about him…

_Oh, don't tell me he's _special_! That's just too funny! John Watson, former ordinary, is the love of Sherlock's life. _

I've had enough of you.

_Face it, you're lonely. If not, you wouldn't be talking to me. You _do_ care, don't you?_

I hate you with every fiber of my being.

_We both know that isn't true. I'm not that bad, Sherlock. I'm the only man in this world that can entertain you intellectually. Not even John Watson has what I have. He may have your heart. But I have your attention. _

_..._

Mrs. Hudson stands there until she sees me swallow. Each day the poor lady does this. After she found that I hadn't left the flat in a few days, she wandered in only to find me starving myself in bed with little motivation to get up.

I haven't had an appetite since the last time I saw Sherlock and have only eaten every few days or so at a time. Mrs. Hudson isn't too happy about all the weight I've lost, especially since it's taken a toll on my overall energy, but there's not much to do anyway.

She started stacking up a few astray newspaper articles on the table and puts them in a pile. "Honestly, John, you're becoming Sherlock. Don't tell me you've started smoking."

"Oh, God, no," I said. "But I trust you've made a new hiding place for them."

"Indeed."

She looked surprised as I smiled in response. I could see him so clearly in my mind. I remembered the infuriated look on his face when we had hidden his cigarettes. I wasn't amused at the time, but now the scene almost makes me laugh thinking about it.

Who knew those days would be missed.

"John." Mrs. Hudson said. Concern was written all over her face even though she was trying to hide it.

I came back to Earth with reluctance. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Mrs. Hudson, thank you so much."

"For what, John?"

"For being here. At least I have you to shove food down my throat. Sherlock has no one."

The landlady paused. It's hard for the few people who know Sherlock to truly believe he's dead, but it's even harder to try and wrap their heads around the idea that he somehow faked falling four stories high. For me, it's easy. He just did.

…

A note, maybe. But what would I write on it? Where would I put it? I can't guarantee it won't be picked up by some random stranger or blown away by the wind unless it's inside the flat, which is the one place I should avoid being. For me and for John.

_What? You don't want to break his heart more than you already have? Tell him it's alright but he'll have to stay behind while you try and catch me? We're cat and mouse, and you don't need you're dog with you. Not since he's weak now. He's dying, Sherlock, and you're the cause of it. _

Shut it.

_...What makes you think I'm still alive?_

If I can fake dying from jumping off a building, you can certainly fake dying from eating a bullet.

_True. _

Goodbye for now. I'm sure we'll meet again soon.

…

I woke up alone again, but…

I swear I felt him.

_You sure that wasn't me?_

You're not real.

_I'm real enough. I'm your nightmare, John. I can do anything to your mind. I killed your best friend, for Pete's sake! I own your very well being!_

"Shut. _UP_! Will you just l_eave me alone_?" I found myself on my feet, fists clenched, heart racing, screaming at a wall. But he came back through the wall as casually as if he had stepped back into a doorway.

_You're talking to yourself, John. No one else knows I'm here. Wait…_

He looks at his hand as if it was something new and fascinating, and touches it. The hand lost color, his fingers spreading and twisting until it looked like wafts of smoke were coming from his shirt sleeve.

Am _I here, John? Am I really here? Tell me! Am I real or not? TELL ME! _

_"_No!" I yelled out in my empty room, finally awake. "You're not…"

A low groan came from my door. Wait. I had closed it before going to sleep. That thing barely budges. That happened the other night, also, didn't it?

It was open.

I ran out of my room and surveyed the flat. Nothing out of the ordinary except a note on the door, also slightly open. I ignored the sticky and flung the door out of my way with far too much force. And then I saw him.

The moonlight outlined his frame as he opened the door to the outside world. The world that no longer believes in him. The world that thinks he's a fraud. The world he is dead to. The bottom of his coat floated slightly upward as the wind picked it up from the floor. His front curls swept across his eyes as he turned.

"Oh, no you don't," I heard myself say almost too loudly. I met him down the stairs hurriedly, as I felt that he'd disappear if I didn't grab hold of him in time.

His waist was a lot smaller than I imagined, even with the coat on. His whole body felt a bit stiff, but I wrapped my arms around him tight, an ear pressed against his chest. His heart was pumping. At least he was alive.

Eventually I felt an arm wrap around me to pull me closer and a hand stroking my hair. Moments passed until Sherlock breaks the silence.

"I can't stay."

"I figured since you were leaving."

"I don't want to leave…but there's no doubt in my mind he's…"

"Still out there."

Sherlock said nothing. He took my head in his hands and looked at me for a long time, learning of every day he's been away. When he was finished, he pressed his forehead to mine.

"I'm sorry, John."

"It's okay."

"He had guns on you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. I had to."

"I understand."

I wanted nothing more than to hold onto him longer, but we both know it couldn't last. He walked out the doorway when I told him, "Don't do anything stupid."

He looked back at me and stepped a bit closer, a wry smile on his face. He paused to enjoy my confused expression before he elaborated, "Too late. I fell."

"Right. You jumped off a building. Idiot."

He just kept smiling and said, "No. Not that fall."

And that's when he kissed me and ran off.

Bastard.

I went back upstairs and remembered that Sherlock had left a note. I got to 221B, closed the door and tore the note off of it.

It read, "You're starting to talk in your sleep."


End file.
